My Mind Rebels At Stagnation
by A Cunning Plan
Summary: John goes away for a few days. With no cases, or other distractions, Sherlock finds himself turning to alternative means of entertainment. Warnings: drug use. Mild spoilers for 'A Study in Pink'.
1. Chapter 1

You're home alone. John's gone off on a mandatory family visit; the half-dreaded weekend visit to Harry's in Edinburgh. Surviving by yourself for two and a half days might sound easy to a stranger, but you know that some things are a lot more difficult than they sound.

You start to get bored (well, more bored than usual) about half an hour after he leaves. It's surprising how much you'd started to take John and the little distractions he provided for granted.

The first day passes uneventfully. Literally. No cases, no John, nothing. Lestrade has nothing for you to do and you couldn't even find anything worth investigating on your long jaunt around the backstreets of London. How so many people can live such empty, desolate lives is truly beyond you. Of course, you have to concede that they have the advantage of not being you, but the point still stands. You start to think the oppressive lack of things to do will drive you to insanity. You really begin to feel that urge; that mad feeling, the one you can normally suppress; that near-constant impulse to do something senseless and exhilarating. Every second you spend without a distraction makes it harder and harder to ignore.

_Sherlock_, it says, _let go. Do it. Just let go._

Stopping that impulse is the biggest problem you've ever faced. The puzzle of how to silence it, permanently, is the only one you've never solved. It's far more than a three patch problem.

You resist for as long as you can before applying several nicotine patches. Lying down in the sofa, you exhale deeply, and smile softly as the drugs begin to take effect. The world around you twists and distorts. The clarity of your thinking improves and the metaphorical box you're exiled from disappears completely. Even though you've nothing to concentrate on now, it helps. You while away the hours chasing random thoughts and, at one point, you even fall asleep.

The second day is worse. Lestrade still has nothing for you and, in your desperation, you go out and get a copy of every London newspaper to see if there might be anything worth investigating. The whole thing turns out to be a massive waste of time but it's barely noon when you return to Baker Street. The thought of spending another 24 hours with nothing to do is torturously painful.

You pace, for a while, around the apartment. A new collection of nicotine patches adorns your arm, but they just don't seem to be working so, in your frustration, you end up you ripping them off. You're still bored beyond belief and, as the seconds drag slowly by, the feeling only worsens. It's stifling and torturous and you can almost feel your brain beginning to atrophy at the lack of decent mental stimulation. That niggling voice in the back of your head is getting louder and louder and you really can't ignore it anymore.

_Go on, Sherlock. Do it. Feel._

You stare bitterly at John's empty armchair before going to find your boredom cure. It's been a while since you've taken anything illegal, but you still have everything hidden away, where no one - especially not Lestrade - could find it. It's his one point of leverage over you, and he knows it.

As you return the living room, you remember Lestrade's latest attempted drugs bust and John's naivety. He must be the only person who doesn't know about your substance issues, although you imagine he's started to make some assumptions. You sit on the sofa, roll back the left sleeve of your shirt and pause for a moment, before plunging the needle into your skin. If you look closely, you can just about make out older, healed puncture marks. You exhale deeply, and after a minute or so, you can feel the effects of the drug taking hold.

* * *

"Sherlock. Sherlock!"

You wake up to see John leaning over you, concern written all over his face. Your mind is momentarily fuzzy and it takes you a few seconds to realise that you're on the floor.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

You make some sort of noise as confirmation. John was due back at 13:30, so you must've been asleep for the last ten hours. You still feel slightly fuzzy and tired, which means (ah, yes, you remember now) you must've taken some form of sedative, probably Seroquel, to ease the post-cocaine crash.

"What - What happened?" John asks. Ignoring him, you focus on sitting up slowly, to prevent a drop in your blood pressure.

"Sherlock," says John, in a quiet voice, and this time you look at him. He's staring at the table; at the your assortment of stuff - the needles, the assorted bags, the bottles of clear solutions you've mixed yourself. When you look back at him, he's staring at you. The severity of his gaze is such that you pause for a moment. The look the two of you share says more than words ever could.

"My mind rebels at stagnation," you mutter as you stand, and begin to gather your things off the table, as if that one phrase explains the entire situation. John stands there, just watching, not saying anything.

"Sherlock!" he repeats, as you leave the room. You cut him off with a wave of your hand.

"I'm going for a shower," you say, partially because a shower would probably do you good and partially because you don't want to face up to John's questions. You know you'll have to talk about this one day, but for now, you really can't be bothered. So you leave it, just like you always do.

Stagnation isn't the only thing your mind rebels at.

* * *

_**A/N: **I might add to this, or write something to go with it from John's POV. However, I don't currently have many ideas, so your opinions are much welcomed. _


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **This is John's perspective of the events in the previous chapter. After this, there should be one more chapter, in which John confronts Sherlock about his drug use._

_As always, reviews and feedback are welcome!_

_

* * *

_

You look at your watch as you unlock the door to 221B Baker Street. 13:45 - only 15 minutes behind schedule. Not bad, you think to yourself, not bad at all. At least one part of your weekend away was a success.

"Hello, John," Mrs Hudson says, smiling at you as you pull your overnight bag inside. "Nice weekend?"

"Oh, yes. It was good," you lie, and smile back at her.

"It's nice to have a change of scenery every now and again," she says, conversationally, and points out a large wedge of envelopes on the table. "Your post. I knew you'd be back soon, so I kept it down here for you."

"Hasn't Sherlock been down?"

"No." Mrs Hudson frowns slightly. "I haven't seen him for days. He's been very quiet." She pauses. "I would've taken it up myself, of course, but you know what he's like sometimes..."

"Ah." You nod and pick up the post. It's junk mostly, junk and bank statements, but there are a few intriguing envelopes addressed to Sherlock. "Thanks, Mrs Hudson," you say, and begin to ascend the stairs, wondering who the post is from and what Sherlock's been doing.

You see him, as soon as you open the door, lying on the floor by the sofa. You stop instantly, shock and worry paralysing you for one heart-stopping moment.

"Sherlock," you say, and barely notice the post fluttering to the floor as you rush over to him. Still breathing. Good. "Sherlock!"

He opens his eyes slightly, and frowns at you. You start to wonder why he was on the floor.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" you ask, and he grunts, presumably in confirmation. It's then that you notice the puncture marks on his forearm, three or four of them - the telltale signs of injection. You don't have to look any further than the coffee table to see the cause. Sitting casually atop it are a few hypodermic needles, small bottles of clear solution, and several bags of powders and pills. As if it isn't enough that your sister is an alcoholic; now it turns out that your best friend is a junkie.

"Sherlock," you repeat, the tone of your voice far more sombre now. When you turn back to him, Sherlock is actually looking at you this time. He sits there for a moment, mouth slightly open as if he were about to say something, and the two of you share a powerful look. Sherlock is the one to break it first.

"My mind rebels at stagnation," he mutters, and you wonder what on earth that's meant to mean as he collects all his paraphernalia from the table and starts to walk off.

"Sherlock!" you say again, but he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

"I'm going for a shower," he says and disappears, leaving you to stand glowering at nothing in particular. After a few minutes, you stop glowering and put the kettle on. A cup of tea would probably do you good.

* * *

Two cups of tea later, you still can't think of anything else. Part of you wonders why Sherlock would do that. If he values the brain so much, why would he go to such efforts to destroy his? A small part of you is unsurprised; this is a man who spends his life chasing after dangerous criminals, throwing himself into situations which could result in his death, not for the money or the credit, but for the intellectual stimulation. Another part of you is angry at yourself for not noticing before now, which is ridiculous, because of course you've noticed Sherlock's substance issues. There hasn't been a single week that you've been here in which you haven't seen Sherlock wearing an absurd amount of nicotine patches at once. And there was Lestrade's 'drugs bust' on the day you'd moved it. You remember the way Sherlock told you to shut up and that black look he gave you when you defended him. You'd forgotten that; it seemed like one insignificant event in one very significant night and you wonder if you should have made more of an effort to remember, to bring it up in conversation. You feel somehow responsible, as if Sherlock's drug use is in some way your fault, although... what was it he had said?

_My mind rebels at stagnation._

Even now you're not quite sure what he meant by that, or how it was meant to explain anything. Sherlock's mind might rebel at stagnation, but right now your mind could do with some.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **Stylistically, this is really different to the previous two parts. I hope you all like it :)_

* * *

It's 3:30am. Sherlock quietly pushes open the door to his bedroom and emerges with a pile of dirty laundry, a thermos flask and a plate. He leaves the plate and the flask on the side in the kitchen, deposits his laundry in the washing machine and puts the kettle on.

In the room upstairs, John Watson listens carefully for any noise from below. He's been home for four days and so far, Sherlock has been successful in avoiding him. But if there's one thing John has learnt during his time with Sherlock, it's how to observe; how to deduce. Maybe if this incident had occurred earlier in their relationship, John would've given up and just waited for Sherlock to come out of his own accord instead of confronting him. But not now. Now, John is playing the game too. So far, he's certain of one thing - Sherlock has managed to avoid him thus far by only leaving his room at night, when John is asleep. Tonight, with the aid of caffeine, John plans to beat Sherlock at his own game.

Downstairs, a cupboard door slams. John jolts awake from his half-asleep state and smiles.

One floor below, Sherlock scowls at the state of the kitchen cupboards. So far the only edibles he's found are milk, stale crackers, a jar of pickled onions, some bread and a packet of Nik Naks. On the positive side, this means John is probably going shopping later on today, and although Sherlock suspects John will try to lure him (out of his room by hiding whatever food he buys, he knows finding it will be easy. John will hide it in nice, conventional places - the back of a cupboard, behind the TV, under the sofa. Sherlock smiles as the idea of turning the whole thing into a game crosses his mind, but the smile fades quickly when he hears the front door open and watches in surprise as John walks into the kitchen.

"You need to go shopping," Sherlock says, casually breaking the silence. "There's no food. When you do, remember to buy me some nicotine patches, I've almost run out."

John stares at the other man. Sherlock's uncanny casualness makes him almost forget his planned speech - this wasn't how this was meant to go.

"I'm not getting you anything until we talk," John says because it's the only thing he can think to say. Suddenly all the actions and words he's been planning seem stupid and foolish. Normally he doesn't mind confrontation, but there's something intimidating about Sherlock's presence that makes John think twice about seeing this through. But, no, he has to - this is _important_. "Well?" he presses, because he really doesn't know how to start this conversation.

Sherlock sighs heavily. A small part of him had been hoping that John would just drop the issue, but he knew that was unrealistic. Perhaps it would be best to just get it over with. "Cocaine, mostly," he says, just as John is about to ask him again. "Sometimes morphine. I might branch out on the odd occasion if I'm feeling adventurous."

"Cocaine?" John repeats, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock nods. "I find it a most transcendently stimulating substance."

"And morphine?"

"Yes. From Barts." Sherlock pauses. "Why are you so surprised?"

John ignores the question, because he's not really sure whether he's more surprised or unsurprised. "And the other day? What was that?" he asks instead, despite the fact that quite a large part of him really doesn't want to know.

"Cocaine," Sherlock says candidly. "I've still got some left, if you'd like to try," he adds, smirking slightly.

John lets out an exasperated sigh and turns away in frustration. As if he thought he could actually have a mature conversation about something with Sherlock, of all people.

"I see I've disappointed you again," Sherlock says. "You really should stop holding me up to such high standards."

"I'm not holding you up to high standards. I'm holding you up to your own standards," John says quietly, and turns to look at Sherlock. "If you care about your work so much, if all you care about is your brain, then why are you going to such lengths to destroy yours?"

"I'm not-"

"Oh, don't be stupid, Sherlock! Not even you can be unaware of the side effects. There's increased risk of infarction, stroke, paranoia, anxiety..." John lists, trying to think of as many cocaine-related health risks as possible.

Sherlock sighs. "Yes, I know."

John looks at him, and waits for a counter argument, but none comes. "Then... why?"

"Do you have any idea what it's like, being me?" Sherlock asks, but doesn't give John a chance to answer. "Of course you don't. So don't hold me up to the same standards as everyone else. I get _bored_, John, and when I get bored, my brain rots. Give me problems, give me work and I am fine, but faced with the dull routine of existence, I start to go mad and this is the only thing that stops it." He pauses for a moment. "It's a measured risk."

John blinks, dumbfounded. "You're doing this for fun? How... how is that a measured risk?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Trust this to be the only issue on which John is less open-minded and tolerant than normal. "It's a measured risk because I'm not like everyone else. You of all people should know that."

John scoffs. "You're not physically different, Sherlock. Taking drugs is still going to do you serious damage."

"Oh, what does that matter?" Sherlock exclaims. The conversation is one he's had many times and he's tired of having to explain himself. "Being bored does me serious damage."

John stares in disbelief at the other man. "You can't compare the side effects of an illegal drug to boredom"

"Why not?"

"Because..." John trails off, desperately trying to search for a reason.

In the kitchen, the kettle begins to boil. A perfect diversion. "Why do you care so much?" Sherlock asks, and scans the kitchen to see if there are any clean mugs.

"Because I care about you, Sherlock! God knows why, but I do," John admits and adds in a quieter voice, "I've already had to watch my sister destroy her life. I am not watching you destroy yours."

"I'm not destroying it," Sherlock says brusquely as the kettle boils. "Tea?"

"You're taking illegal drugs! If that's not destroying your li-"

"You take sugar with your tea, don't you?" Sherlock asks, locating teabags and two mugs. John watches him, confused. "Two sugars. And not too much milk, am I right?"

"Sherlock, I don't... Why are you making me tea?"

Sherlock beings rifling through various containers in order to find the sugar. "Why shouldn't I? I thought you liked tea," he says and manages to locate the sugar. "Aha!"

"Now's not the time," John says, and wonders if he's managed to dream the entire conversation - Sherlock never makes tea. Ever. "We're having a conversation. It's... it's important."

"We were talking," Sherlock says. He finishes stirring his tea, picks it up, and walks towards his room. "I'm going to bed now," he calls, "Enjoy the tea."

John just stares.

* * *

Sherlock doesn't sleep that night. He nurses his tea long after he's finished drinking it. The feeling of unease and guilt for walking out on John, and the idea that John wouldn't tolerate his habits, stay in his mind and keep him awake. Sherlock knows he's not an addict in the conventional sense, but he also knows that he needs the drugs for when life gets quiet and boring; for when waking to This Morning and Jeremy Kyle and Cash in the Attic is too much; for when he starts to get that urge to do stupid and dangerous things 'just because.' While those times are (relatively) rare, they do occur, and if John didn't want to watch him 'destroy his life', did that mean he'd leave? Sherlock can't shake the idea and can't shake the fact that it scares him a little. He's never before realised just how much he's come to rely on John and just how much he needs him around. Pacing around his room, Sherlock comes to a conclusion: he needs to _do_ something to convince John to stick around and tries desperately to think of something appropriate.

It's morning when he reaches a decision. Sherlock hesitates for a few minutes before executing his task, but he has to (however reluctantly) admit that John is the most important thing in his life. Immediately, he finds his coat and decides to go out before he can change his mind.

* * *

John doesn't sleep much either. He spends most of the night thinking about drugs and Sherlock, about what was said last night, and, in particular, about what Sherlock had said. He did have a point - boredom was bad for Sherlock (and the walls and anyone and everything in his general vicinity) but... John's mind was still uneasy when he thought about Sherlock taking drugs. He didn't seem to be addicted, but he could just be cleverly hiding it, and he could still become addicted in the future. But Sherlock was so stubborn. John couldn't offer him an ultimatum or tell him to quit because, more likely than not, Sherlock would just hide it and Sherlock is very good at hiding things. He finds himself drawing to the conclusion that maybe he should just tolerate it; he is in an ideal position to make sure that Sherlock's substance issues don't get any worse. John doesn't particularly like it, but it's something he can live with.

John goes downstairs later than he normally does. The flat seems empty and on the kitchen table, he finds a small bottle, half-filled with a clear solution. It's clearly been left there by Sherlock and John can't help but smile at the magnitude of the gesture.

* * *

Sherlock only returns when he is sure that John will be awake. He comes back to Baker Street at 10AM, and John sat in his chair, channel flicking. His cocaine is on the kitchen table, where he left it.

"I haven't been shopping yet," John says and turns the TV off. "We'll have to go out for lunch."

"Oh," says Sherlock, eyeing the bottle with surprise. "Well, I did buy some things from the shop," he adds, and awkwardly lifts up a plastic bag.

John stares at him in surprise. "You went shopping?"

"I didn't know what else to do," Sherlock admits. "It's only tea and nicotine patches. Oh, and some of those biscuits you like."

John nods. An uncomfortable silence hangs between them.

"Thank you," John says quietly, looking Sherlock in the eye.

Sherlock nods. "Er. Yes. Well, I, er-"

"I'm not going to pretend to understand," John adds. "But if you think that this is best I'll trust you for now."

Sherlock nods again and smiles and he and John share a deep look.

"Oh, Lestrade called," John says, "There's been a murder in Kensington. Interested?"

Sherlock grins, and John sees his eyes sparkle. "Always."


End file.
